Lying beside you, my arm wrapped over and around and then tucked under your downside hip, I marvel, both at how large this tiny part of you has become and at how small it still is.
My thumb finds your spine and wanders up and down and back and forth feeling the hard, pointy edges of your bones. I picture your spine not as a pearl necklace or any other poetic device, but as a line of vertebra after vertebra curling gently from your soft, sweet neck to your boogie hips. I imagine each butterfly of bone that was so perfectly formed while you swam under my own spine.
You sleep, and as you sleep you snort and choke and snore, oh how you snore. I am desperate to intervene, to help, to calm, to cure, but instead I lie still. I lie still because for now, you sleep, and for now, that is good enough.